


Spare the Beasts

by Daxiefraxie



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, but for now i've been playing a ton of bloodborne sooooo, just a little ramble-story, some thoughts that might expand into a proper au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25947109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daxiefraxie/pseuds/Daxiefraxie
Summary: There's nothing more horrific than a hunt. In case you fail to realize, the things you hunt -- they're not beasts, they're people. One day you will see.
Relationships: Djura/Djura's Ally
Kudos: 8





	Spare the Beasts

“Old Yarnham,” said the voice from above, from that rooftop perch, “is burned and abandoned by men; now home only to the beasts.”

Gehrman had said as much, the Hunter recalled. The perfect place for a hunter. Her grip tightened on her cleaver’s handle. A step forward.

“They are of no harm to those above,” that booming voice continued, sounding almost hurried. Apologetic, or pleading. And then his tone sharpened again. “Turn back, or the hunter will face the hunt.”

That stalled her. Caused her pause. She could not retreat, but she had little business here. Ritual Blood; some item of holy importance, held by a beast in this graveyard’s depths. “No harm,” she muttered. The Hunter sighed, and pulled a torch from her bag, sparking it into a rumbling flame. “Let us see.”

***

The beasts were scared of flame, but not of her. They recoiled, but swarmed on the outskirts of her torchlight. Pacing, snarling, a mass of red eyes and furious teeth.

The Hunter swung the torch towards a particularly eager beast, and it leapt backwards. Out of the corner of her eye, another advanced towards her, and she whirled to place the flame between herself and her foe.

They had encircled her, a swirling tempest of fur and fury. In her heart, she knew this would only end in bloodshed – either hers, or theirs.

But she could not swing. Her right hand would not move. Knuckles pale and locked, grip shuddering. Those eyes...there was something in those eyes. Some hunger, beyond the eclipsed hatred of Yarnham above. Some fear.

The Hunter backed herself against a far wall. There were beasts in every direction, feet away. Then a foot away. Closing in like bloody jaws.

She let go. The Saw Cleaver slipped out of her fingers, clattering to the ground with an echoing skitter. The beasts recoiled at the sound, and then they paused. Confused, cautious. Watching her. They watched her lower the torch, and press its lit end against the wet ground until it sputtered into nothing. And she watched them back, eyes locked on each beast in turn, as she slipped the unlit torch back into her bag.

One beast, larger than the rest, took a step towards her. Then another. She forced her fists into open hands, and stared at him. He leaned down, and sniffed her, his awful breath wafting over her face.

And then he rose. And he backed up, head almost bowed, still careful. There was no hunger in his eyes now. Only fear.

And the Hunter walked. As slowly as she could manage. Nice and steady. Through the tide of beasts, following as wardens might follow their prisoner.

***

There was a hunter waiting at the base of the tower. He stared at her from atop a wooden staircase, he stared at the unarmed woman who had waded through the beasts. And he laughed. “I don’t know what sort of trick you’ve pulled, wench,” he said as he walked towards her. “But you cannot fool me. You are bloody and pale, one of his, one of the dreamers, and I will not let breathe while I still guard this town.” A saw in his hand, like the one she had discarded, but far more wicked, with jagged teeth and an ashen blade.

The Hunter said nothing. She stood at the bottom of the ladder at the tower’s base, and watched him.

With a flick of his wrist, his saw extended, not a cleaver but a spear. And he swung towards her neck.

“Leofwine!” came the voice from above.

His spear stopped. Teeth against her neck, pressing into her skin. Tasting her blood, but not her life.

“I will speak with them,” the voice said. “And if they are to be dangerous, I will end their dream myself.”

The spear-hunter, Leofwine, stared at his prey. And she stared back, at his face marred by scars and age, at his unkempt beard and furious, tired eyes. And he lowered his weapon. “Go then,” he said. “Djura wishes you speak, so do so. And he will kill you himself.”

“I look forward to it,” the Hunter said. And she stepped onto the ladder.

***

They made a fire, before they talked. This man, this Djura, and the Hunter. Sticks and stones and flint and steel. “To ward off the cold,” he said, in an odd voice. An old and tired one.

And they sat in front of the fire, watching it burn. Him, his back to the gatling gun pointed at Old Yarnham’s entrance. Her, her back to the ladder, towards the fifteen-story fall.

“Why did you spare the beasts?” Djura asked.

“Couldn’t say,” the Hunter replied, and fished some dried meat from her bag. She offered it to Djura and he shook his head.

“I’ve had enough meat to last me a lifetime.” And then he stared up at the darkening sky, the oncoming night. “You’re a dreamer, aren’t you? Gehrman’s new mark?”

She bit into the jerky as she considered her answer. “You know Gehrman?”

“Yes,” Djura said. “Faintly. As one should remember a dream.” He smiled, a pained little grin that dimpled his cheeks and narrowed his one good eye. “I was once a dreamer myself. A hunter, a dreamer, a Powder Keg. And now? I’m an old man on a tower in a town full of beasts.“ He laughed, hearty and deep. “I haven’t seen anyone like you, though. I’ve lived a long time, and none but the beasts have walked through here bloodless.”

“Not even you,” the Hunter concluded.

“Oh yes,” he replied. and he pointed to the bandage over his right eye. “It’s a thankless job, really. Most of the beasts leave me well enough alone, but there are still a few who lash out. That’s why I fight from up here. Away from them.”

She considered that, and chewed her meal. “I search for a holy relic. A Chalice to the tomb of the gods. I will not stay longer than that.”

Djura nodded, slowly. “You seek the Church of the Good Chalice, then. You’ll find it farther down, at the outskirts of the collapsed area of Old Yarnham. There’s a path below here, I’ll tell Leofwife to show you the way.”

“Thank you,” the Hunter said.

“There is a beast in that church,” Djura warned. “It is a proper abomination, a former saint starved into monstrosity. I would ask you not to harm the beasts of Old Yarnham, but for that thing...I can make an exception.”

She nodded. “A blood of the church is well worth spilling. I don’t think I’ll have any issue striking that one down.”

He chuckled. “Well said, dreamer.” And Djura hesitated. “You’ve left your weapon, haven’t you? I would not reccomend fighting that beast unarmed.” And before the Hunter could protest, Djura tossed something towards her.

She caught it and it knocked the breath out of her; an odd and heft device, with a metal stake in some pneumatic contraption.

“Strap that onto your arm,” Djura said, and the Hunter did so. “I think you’ll find it an effective weapon. It’s served me well, and now it will serve you.”

“Once more,” the Hunter said, “thank you.”

Djura smiled wryly. “And when you return to your dream, tell that old bastard that Djura sends his regards.“

***

Leofwife was waiting below, sitting at the base of the stairs when the Hunter descended. The nearby gate was open now, the entrance to farther depths of Old Yarnham. “I don’t know why he trusts you,” Leofwife said, “but I swore my vow to him. Sickness and health, by his side. If he believes in you, pale dreamer, then I will tolerate your continued existence.”

The Hunter simply nodded, adjusting the Stake Driver on her arm.

“Tell me,” Leofwife said, “why do you hunt? You’re not one of the church; you’re an outsider. You don’t seem to care much for the hunt itself, but you’ve thrown your lot in with Gehrman of all people.”

She considered her answer for a little while. “There is a man I wish to kill,” she said. “But I cannot, yet. In lieu of that, I will murder every single monster who resembles him.”

Leofwife nodded slowly. “I think you are a dangerous woman,” he continued, finally. “And I think your dream will burn.” And then he sighed. “But I will pray that I am incorrect.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been playing SO much bloodborne recently so i thought I might as well do a bit of writing. I might revisit this idea later, but no promises. I've still got Deja Vu on the backburner, and I don't want to put too much time into another story project right now.


End file.
